


Ghosts

by hailingstars



Series: Febuwhump [27]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Dolls, Febuwhump, Gen, Ghosts, Psychics, Sewers, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-11-07 04:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17953637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hailingstars/pseuds/hailingstars
Summary: A psychic warns Peter that he's cursed.He definitely doesn't freak out about it down in the sewers during a mission with the Avengers all to Tony's amusement.





	Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> So this is the last one! I can't believe February is already over!! 
> 
> This one is supposed to be suicide, but I don't feel comfortable writing about that topic, so I'm changing it up for the last day. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

Peter’s obsession with ghosts started with a psychic and lots of rain.

Buckets and buckets of raindrops that pelted down from the heavens as him and Ned attempted to walk home from school for the last time as sophomores.

And they had been excited about that, too. A summer full of possibilities, and for Peter, a summer filled with missions with the Avengers. Mr. Stark had promised him. No more Spidey on the sidelines. 

The raincloud appeared out of nowhere with a gusty wind and a clap of thunder. One minute they enjoyed the sunshine and a slight breeze, the next they were in near darkness, speeding down a sidewalk in Queens with their bookbags held over their heads in an unsuccessful attempt to stay dry.

The sound of it, of heavy rain pounding the sidewalks, the buildings, the car windows, was overwhelming, and it was all Peter could hear until Ned pulled him into a café. Bells chimed as the door slowly shut behind them, as they stood on the welcome rug shaking water out from their shoes and putting their bookbags back on their backs.

It was a cluttered little café, with dream-catchers hanging all around, multiple paintings crammed on the walls and no less than five essential oil diffusers, all expelling white mist and contributing to the strange smell filling the room. Not the sort of smell Peter associated with cafes, but when his eyes trailed across the wooden sign hanging above the counter and the cash register, he figured it out.

Carved in mysterious, cursive letters, the sign said: Sylvia Duncan – Queens’ Authentic Psychic 

It was just sort of self-proclaimed declaration that made Peter suspicious. The kind that suggested the opposite was true. Psychics and authenticity didn’t mix well, but psychics and scams blended together nicely.

Sylvia Duncan came gliding out from the back room, shot them a toothy, crooked grin and went behind the cash register. 

“What can I get for you boys?” she asked them, with a titled head.

Peter and Ned looked at each other, then stumbled forward a bit to glance up at the menu. He didn’t want anything, not from here, but he was sure him and Ned were thinking along the same lines. It’d be rude to hide in here from the rain and not buy anything. The menu was messy handwriting on a giant chalkboard that hung from the ceiling. It wasn’t legible, so Peter guessed at his order. 

“Umm we’ll take hot chocolate?” said Peter. A strange choice for spring, but the air condition and his wet clothes and hair was starting to make him shiver. He reached from his wallet. Shiny and new black leather, filled with a couple of twenties that raised Ned’s eyebrows. “A gift from Mr. Stark.” 

The explanation was needed. Peter never had that kind of cash, so the mistake wasn’t realized until he saw the expression that flashed across Sylvia’s face. He shouldn’t have said that, shouldn’t have implied he was connected to wealth. As he looked at her, he saw the gears turning behind her eyes. 

She marked him as a sucker, and maybe he was. 

“Perfect,” she said. She punched in some codes on the register, then stopped, paused to look at both of them for an uncomfortable amount of time. “Free reading with each cup.” 

Peter and Ned exchanged more nervous glances when she looked back down at the register. Ned adjusted the strap on his bag, and Peter kicked at the carpet, trying to ignore the way his wet socks squished every time he moved his feet.

She rang up the total, sixteen dollars for two cups, then stumbled around behind the counter, preparing it for them. Peter’s eyes flickered back and forth from the rainstorm pouring down outside and the cramped café. A debate played out in his head, and ten minutes later he found himself sitting next to Ned, both high up on stools. A small circular table sat between them and the psychic, with two cups of hot chocolate sat off to the side. Ignored. 

“You first,” she said, looking at Peter. She extended her hands across the table, opened her fists to reveal her palms, sat up straighter and closed her eyes. 

Peter looked at Ned, who shrugged and mouthed, “I don’t know, man.” 

Slowly, Peter placed his hands in hers, but the second they touched, she snatched her hands away immediately. Peter and Ned jumped back, inched further from their stools and were ready to bolt, as her eyes flew open and widened.

“You have to go,” she told them. She hopped down from her stool and retreated back behind the counter.

“Wait, what?” 

“I’m closing,” she said. She pointed to the door. “Out. Out of my shop.” 

“But the rain –“ Ned started, but the absence of the rain noise brought Peter’s gaze to the windows. The sun was out, and it was strong. There wasn’t a drop of water to be seen. 

It enticed them both off the stools and nearer to the door. Peter paused with his hand on the doorknob, and looked back at Sylvia, suddenly curious.

“What did you see?”

“You,” she said. “Are cursed. And stalked by spirits.” 

“Stalked by spirits?” asked Peter. “You mean, like, ghosts?”

She narrowed her eyes and pointed the door again.

Once outside, Peter looked around. The only evidence the rain left behind were wet car windows and small puddles on the roads. Up above, the sky was clear, the sun was blazing, and the birds were out and chirping.

“Scam artist,” said Ned. “That was the most expensive cup of hot chocolate I never drank.”

“Yeah. That was… crazy,” said Peter.

That night Peter and May ate spaghetti in the living room in front of the TV. Some reality show played in the background, something mindless but entertaining. Trash TV only watched to zone out and let minds wander somewhere else, or rather fixate.

Peter couldn’t stop thinking about ghosts. The idea of unseen entities floating around, stalking him, was ridiculous, just as ridiculous as Sylvia the psychic, and yet there was something appealing about it, something that made him want to believe it was true.

He turned to May. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

It took her a few seconds to disengage from the drama unfolding on the TV, but eventually, she looked over, made eye-contact and smiled. “I try to keep an open mind. Why?" 

“No reason.”

When his aunt disappeared into her room, Peter switched the TV to YouTube, where he watched amateur ghost hunting videos. It was disappointing. Most of them seemed fake, but they did give him ideas. He opened his Amazon app. He bought some supplies.

If there were any ghosts following him around, he was going to find them, and for the next couple of weeks, he devoted himself to finding the supernatural.

Ned joined him in his hunt, and together, armed with an EMF reader, they explored all the unsavory, abandoned buildings in Queens, the places they thought ghosts might go to hang out when they weren’t stalking Peter. Each time they entered a new potentially haunted building, they did it with excitement and apprehension, and only to leave disappointed just a few hours later.

It was clear. 

If there were any ghosts hanging around, they didn’t want to be found by Peter. 

After a couple of weeks, him and Ned got bored and tired of their search. The EMF reader got pushed under Peter’s bed while they built a new Lego set on the floor, and they both forgot about it.

* * *

The next time Peter thought about the curse and the ghosts he was miles under the city of New York, and he definitely wasn’t chasing after it. The curse was chasing after him.

He stood, terrified, in a small puddle of water. The gross water bled into his tennis shoes as he looked all around at the concrete walls and ceilings.

If the curse was real, this was going to be the moment when it struck him down, because of course it would creep up in the moment he was defenseless, without even his Spidey suit to protect him.

“It’s better if you look defenseless,” Mr. Stark had told him, hours earlier, as he sprayed him down with something from an unmarked can. It made Peter cough and twitch. “Hold still.”

“What is this stuff?”

“Something to get its attention.”

“Mr. Stark,” Peter had said. “It sort of sounds like you’re using me as bait.”

“Bait is better than sitting out on the sidelines, right?” He motioned with his hand for Peter to turn, and Peter obeyed. “And don’t worry. We won’t let it near you. We’ll be there the whole time.” 

Peter wasn’t so sure. Looking around, he didn’t see any of them, and he might as well been down in the sewers all alone. Just him and his curse. 

Something moved in the water, and Peter froze. His heartrate kicked up a notch as he stared down, watching to see if anything was swimming towards him, but it didn’t return to normal after he saw nothing was approaching him. 

“Umm guys,” said Peter, through their coms. “I think now’s a good time to tell you that a psychic once told me I was cursed so if I get eaten by the sewer monster – “

There was laughter in his ears, from more than one source, but Mr. Stark’s was the loudest. 

“A psychic? Kid please tell me you didn’t pay actual money to get your palms read by a scam artist.”

“Technically I paid for hot chocolate.”  

He kicked his foot in the water, and watched the ripple current it made. He supposed this was fine. As long as he could hear Mr. Stark and the others laughing, talking to him, even if it was at his expense, he could be bait.

Then it happened. Something touched the back of his shin, and he screamed. He jumped up, his foot got tangled in something mysterious, and he fell, flat on his back, still screaming and now splashing in the gross sewer water. Just as promised, Iron Man came flying down out of nowhere and landed next to him.

Peter stopped screaming, and watched Mr. Stark look around, confused, in all directions before his face mask came down. 

“What happened?”

“Uh,” said Peter. “Something touched my leg.” 

Mr. Stark looked down, in the water, and reached down and grabbed something. He held it out for Peter to see with a grin. It was a doll. Something kids would play with. 

“I’m calling it for tonight guys,” said Bruce, through the coms. “If it was in this area, it’s gone now.”

Peter hung his head, and Mr. Stark pulled him up out of the sewer water. It had to be the first time in Avenger’s history the monster was scared away by screaming. 

* * *

 After spending over twenty minutes in the shower, furiously scrubbing the sewer off himself, Peter stood in his brand-new bedroom in the Avenger’s compound, in pajamas and with soaking wet hair.

Peter didn’t know how he was supposed to go to bed after being traumatized in the sewer, even if it was just by a doll, but he climbed onto it anyway. He didn’t make it under the covers. There was a noise. A strange one, and it made Peter freeze up the same way the rippling waters in the sewer had.

He focused in on the ghostly noise and scrambled out of his room, following it to a floor he’d never been on before and therefore declared spooky. He made his steps light, started to creep around a corner just as someone tapped him on the shoulder, and he catapulted into the air.

“Jumpy today, huh?” 

Peter turned, and when he saw who it was, glared. “Shhh Mr. Stark. You’re going to scare them away.” 

“Scare what away?” 

“… the ghosts.”

Mr. Stark looked like he was trying to hold back a laugh. “Psychics, and now ghosts?”

Peter shrugged, and the noise spouted off again.

“That’s your ghost?” said Mr. Stark, with a raised eyebrow. Peter nodded. “Kid that’s the plumbing. They’re coming to fix it tomorrow.”

Peter hung his head again, slumped his shoulders and sighed, crushed with disappointment one more time. 

“Come on, ghostbuster,” said Mr. Stark. He put his arm around him and led him back towards the elevator. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”

Once they got to his bedroom, Mr. Stark followed Peter inside, stood in the middle of the room, and looked around. His eyes eventually closed in on Peter, and he clapped his hands together.

“Do you need me to check under the bed?” asked Mr. Stark, and Peter frowned. “Or the closets? Vents?”

“Very funny, Mr. Stark,” said Peter. 

“I’m just saying, there could be a scary doll or a leaking pipe around here somewhere…” Mr. Stark looked at him, then laughed. It was genuine and that was rare, so Peter smiled despite himself. “God, kid. I’m gonna be so bored when your summer break ends. Where else will I get my entertainment when you’re locked up in school?” 

“I dunno,” said Peter. He sat down on the end of his bed. “Why don’t you join a bridge club? I hear it’s popular in the old folk’s home.” 

Mr. Stark walked across the room, and at first Peter thought it was to retaliate against his joke, but instead the man simply sat next to him. 

“Do you want to tell why you’re suddenly so hyper focused on psychics and ghosts?” 

“I don’t know,” said Peter, with a shrug. He looked down at his hands gripping the edge of the mattress, then back up at Mr. Stark. “I guess I just want to believe in that sort of thing, you know? Like… I like the idea of the people who leave us haven’t really left, like maybe my parents and my uncle Ben are still here, watching.”

Mr. Stark didn’t say anything back. The silence, after admitting something so personal, was too much to handle.

“I know it’s stupid.” 

“It’s not,” said Mr. Stark. “You know years ago I might have called you batshit crazy for believing in ghosts, but I’ve seen so many bizarre things since Afghanistan, that seems like the least crazy. Besides, I like the idea that Howard has to watch me piss on his grave from the afterlife.”

“Mr. Stark,” said Peter, with reprimand.   

“What?” 

Peter shook his head, Mr. Stark ruffled his hair, and they both laughed. He stood up from his bed, and told him goodnight, but Peter only let him get halfway to the door before stopping him. Mr. Stark turned, and waited for him. 

“Do you think we could have a movie night tonight?” asked Peter. He looked around his bedroom. It was great. He was thankful for it, but he didn’t want to be alone with the ghosts. “And I could sleep on your couch in your suite, like I used to?”

“So, you finally get your own room and you want to sleep on my couch?”

Peter nodded.

“Yeah, okay. A movie sounds good.”

Relief washed over him as he followed Mr. Stark back to his suite. They got snacks and spread them out of the coffee table, and FRIDAY played the next movie they had in queue. They were about ten minutes into the movie when Peter looked over at Mr. Stark. 

“That thing you said about your dad’s grave,” said Peter. “You were speaking figuratively, right?”

“Sure.”

Mr. Stark kicked his feet up on the table, then aimed a grin at Peter, letting him in on the joke. Peter smiled back, sunk deeper into the couch, and forgot about the curse. If anyone was stalked by ghosts, it was Mr. Stark, and he seemed to be doing alright. At least they could be haunted together.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for everyone who has been following along this month. I've loved reading all your comments and talking to you in the comment section, so thanks for hanging around and making this month fly by for me! You've all been so great!!


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